“No, I don’t think you do.”
“They don’t belong to anyone you’re thinking about, Meryl.”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking about.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then tell me who they belong to,” I demanded.
He didn’t.
For a moment, I felt ridiculous interrogating my husband over a handful of keys.
Then his silence stretched on.
“Are these women’s keys?” I asked.
“What? No!”
“Then whose?”
“Meryl…”
“Five years, Liam. Have I ever gone through your phone?”
“No.”
“Checked your email? Asked where you were every five minutes?”
“God, no… stop… please…”
“Don’t make me feel silly for asking why my husband has four strangers’ keys hidden in his car.”
“I’m not.”
“Then answer me.”
His voice suddenly changed.
“Please don’t drive home yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t finished.”
“Finished what?”
“I’ll explain. Just… meet me somewhere.”
That was the moment the situation stopped feeling strange and started feeling serious.
